Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter (12 page)
I spent a pleasant evening with Mr. and Mrs. Crookshanks in their familiar, homely kitchen, enjoying some of Mr. Crookshanks’ delicious sausages. I would also miss this godly, wise couple and their hospitality.
Another afternoon I walked across the estate to visit Sarah in her new little tied cottage. Sarah looked as pleased as a queen as she busied herself in her tiny kitchen, making tea for us both. She proudly showed me around her domain, and I had to peek up her chimney to see the large joint of bacon received from her father-in-law. Sarah spoke excitedly of the thrill of doing domestic chores and shopping for one’s own home, of planning and organising one’s own time, and of her plans to keep hens and sell eggs, all the time fiddling unconsciously with her new, shiny wedding ring, which gave an air of maturity to her hand.
She was interested to hear about my new position, but as she herself enjoyed the freedom of being newly released from domestic service, she seemed to pity all those who were still under that yoke, whatever their job title may be. I shared the letter I had received from Emma with Sarah, and we chatted about the exciting news. Of course, Emma had landed on her feet and charmed her way into getting the lady’s maid position, and because her new employers were planning to travel to the continent in the near future and were determined to have Emma with them, they had arranged an immediate discharge from the Davenports’ service and for her few possessions to be collected from Barton Manor. Sarah and I smiled over the hastily written letter describing such dramatic events and concluded that “it could only happen to Emma.”
I felt the greatest sadness at the thought of leaving Mrs. Milton. Her demanding job would continue as ever, with very little support from staff or family. Throughout my time at Barton Manor, I had never felt close to her, but she had always shown fairness and kindness as far as her superior rank would allow. I knew we could have been good friends had we met in a different situation. I couldn’t decide whether she was content with her isolated position or whether she secretly craved companionship. She was upright and good, always respecting Christian values but never embracing the salvation offered in the gospel. She seemed to keep everyone at arm’s length, including the Saviour.
I longed for her to come to know Christ’s love and to belong to His family. I wished I had been a better witness to her. I thought hard and long about an appropriate leaving gift to give to her and finally ordered a book of
Expository Thoughts on the Gospel of Mark
by J.C. Ryle. It felt like a coward’s way of evangelism, but I prayed that it would be a blessing to her. I hastily finished embroidering a bookmark (originally intended for Miss Miller) and placed it in the book to add a more personal touch.
On my final day at Barton Manor, I visited the library for one last time to return a book and sign my name in the borrowers’ book. I smiled as I saw the long, uninterrupted list of
Rebecca Stubbs
signatures and spent a few moments perusing the pages to see what I had borrowed. My romantic self got the better of me as my fingers traced the signature of Edward Thorpe. As I gazed around the beautiful, panelled room, I remembered all the secret meetings we had enjoyed together. These conversations had been most satisfying and agreeable times of true mutual understanding, something I had rarely found at Barton Manor—moments I had felt truly understood and valued as a person rather than as a useful cleaning machine. All my other friendships made among the inhabitants of Barton Manor lacked a spiritual dimension, and without that, they seemed hollow and temporary.
As I took off my housemaid uniform for the last time, I was surprised at the pang of sadness I felt that this part of my life was over. How the next chapter would unfold, I had no idea.
CHAPTER 13
THE NEW MASTER OF BIGGENDEN
Manor and estate had kindly arranged for a private carriage to convey the new housekeeper to his residence; thus, I departed Barton Manor in style. At first I enjoyed the luxury of my solitude, but the anticipation of actually seeing Mr. Thorpe again (I kept reminding myself to address him as such, rather than with the somewhat juvenile title of Master Edward) soon created butterflies in my stomach. This was exacerbated by a feeling of nausea due to the motion of the carriage along the roads. The driver seemed to be an excitable type who was either urging the horse to gallop or halt suddenly, causing me to be flung hither and thither.
I discovered that the only way to cope with this was to adopt the unconventional position of sitting on the floor and pushing my feet hard against the opposite seat, thus anchoring myself against some of the extremes of motion. I had to keep my eyes tightly shut, which was a great pity, as normally I enjoyed watching the activities of daily life of villages I passed through. I had left Barton Manor in my smart new clothes and was travelling for the first time in a privately owned cab, but now I was feeling wretched, green, and unsightly. The Lord had effectively cut me down to size, and as my stomach churned and my head reeled, I prayed for help and support to survive the journey and meeting with Mr. Thorpe.
At first the journey took the same route as to Pemfield, but after Tunbridge Wells, instead of travelling north toward the Greensand Ridge, we turned eastward along the Medway Valley. That area was all new to me. I had no idea how near or far we were from Biggenden Estate. This was vexing, as I wanted to smarten up my appearance before arrival. A very bumpy peer into my small looking glass reassured me that my outward appearance was not as dishevelled as my inward feelings were; a multitude of hairpins and a hat had more control over my hair than I had over my emotions. My palms were so clammy with anticipatory nervousness that I decided to keep my gloves on until any handshaking was over.
My first impression of Biggenden Manor was that it looked like a small monastery. A thick hedge surrounded a garden of overgrown shrubs with not a flower in sight. The house was Jacobean in style, built of Wealden sandstone, with gabled façades. Mullioned arched windows gave it a somewhat ecclesiastical appearance. I had never seen such a masculine looking house and felt disappointed by its severe, unwelcoming appearance.
Much to my joy and relief, the manor’s new master gave me an altogether different welcome, rushing up to the vehicle before it had barely stopped to release me from the carriage and set me down on solid ground.
I had never before seen Edward as animated and excited as when he opened the front door and showed me into his kingdom. He was no longer the misfit family member at Barton Manor but the proud owner of his own house and estate.
My eyes took a while to adjust to the darkness of the entrance hall, but as soon as they had, I inspected the interior with great interest. The hallway was spacious but not expansive, and everything to behold was of timber. The wide staircase that ascended up three walls of the room was uncarpeted oak, and the hall floor was bare oak boards except for one Turkish-style mat in the centre. The walls were covered with elaborately carved oak panelling.
Edward started to explain what the carvings represented, but instead of concentrating on the panelling, my eyes wandered and I studied him. He looked so well, happy, and handsome; I felt a wave of joy at being in his presence again. His eyes met mine and before he moved on to show me more of the house, he gave my arm a squeeze and said, “It’s so lovely to have you here.” That was enough to crown my day.
Had a female greeted me from my coach, no doubt I would have been given an opportunity to retire, straighten my clothing, and tidy my hair. A polite question about my journey would have been asked, and a refreshing cup of tea offered. Such pleasantries were ignored by Edward, and I was not offered any refreshment until the whole house had been explored from top to bottom.
The manor was modest in size, having only six bedrooms and two attic rooms, one of which was mine. The downstairs consisted of the hallway at the centre with a dining room, sitting room, study, and library coming off the hall. Beyond and behind the dining room was a comfortable small room that was to be my sitting room. It faced westward, catching the afternoon and evening sunshine. Large sash windows overlooked the back garden and meadows beyond. The room was well furnished with a chest of drawers, bookshelves, a desk, a pair of armchairs, and my own stove; I was delighted. Next to my room were the kitchen, pantry, and scullery. The back door of the kitchen opened onto a backyard where hens were scratching the ground. A house of this size did not have a servants’ hall, so the kitchen was used for eating as well as preparing food.
It was in the kitchen that I was introduced to the other members of staff—all two of them! Mr. and Mrs. Kemp had been Sir Richard Tenson’s faithful servants during his latter years, providing him with all the nursing care he required. The two were well past their prime and seemed worn out by the constant attention their former employer, who had been bed-bound for almost a year, had needed. Mr. Kemp was slim, slightly stooped, and almost completely deaf. Mrs. Kemp was square in size and her walking was severely limited due to arthritic knees. This faithful couple had kept the manor running, with the occasional help from Agnes Brookes, the shepherd’s daughter.
When I heard the story of the Kemps’ loyal devotion to Sir Richard Tenson, I feared that they might resent Edward’s—and more especially, my—presence. But the opposite was true: the honest couple seemed pleased that someone was coming to take control of the house they loved but could not manage. The long months of Sir Richard Tenson’s decline and the increased infirmity of the couple had brought about some unconventional arrangements in the house. Mr. and Mrs. Kemp more or less lived in the kitchen, and their two old armchairs stood companionably at each side of the kitchen range. In the evening the quaint couple could be found sitting in silence together, Mr. Kemp dozing quietly with his feet on the fender and Mrs. Kemp knitting, counting stitches under her breath. They struggled to manage the stairs to the attic bedrooms after a tiring day and had turned a storeroom near the kitchen into a makeshift bedroom. Every evening at nine o’clock, they had a cup of milky tea, filled their hot-water bottle, and shuffled off to bed.
After our introductions, I finally got my longed for cup of tea. Mrs. Kemp was all for serving Edward’s tea on a silver tray in the study, but he brushed the suggestion away and sat with us at the kitchen table. I suspected that this went against the Kemps’ sense of decorum. They were very stilted and reserved at first, but as Edward probed more into their life with Sir Richard Tenson, they seemed to forget the rules and answered with animation and warmth. Mrs. Kemp often finished her husband’s sentences for him.
As I watched Edward listen intently to the elderly couple with tender respect, my heart filled with all the emotions I had strictly forbidden myself to feel. When the teapot had been drunk dry, Mrs. Kemp eased herself off her chair and was about to struggle up the two flights of back stairs to show me my quarters. I quickly assured her that I knew the way and that she need not trouble herself.
When I had unpacked my trunks and organised my belongings in the bedroom, I shut the door and knelt by my new bed to thank the Lord for journeying mercies and for making things so well here. I prayed for wisdom to settle into the household and especially in how to handle myself with Edward. After surveying my pleasant room with the evening sun streaming through the window, I washed my face and hands with water from the jug provided and straightened my hair, then left the room to inspect my sitting room downstairs.
I suddenly realised there was no one else to empty my bowl of washing water, so I returned to dispose of it myself. I opened my bedroom window and looked down to see what was directly below. When I found it was a small border of overgrown roses, I quickly threw my washing water to them. I stilled my troubled conscience by saying to myself that the soapy water would help prevent green-fly. This became my daily routine, and the roses flourished.
I descended into the kitchen via the narrow servants’ staircase and found Mrs. Kemp busy preparing the evening meal, but only for three of us as Mr. Thorpe was spending the evening with the headmaster of the local school and his wife. I felt a pang of disappointment but soon got busy in my sitting room, arranging my desk, exploring the drawers and cupboards and finally, writing of my travels to Miss Miller and Mrs. Brown.
The evening meal was a quiet and quick affair around the kitchen table. Mrs. Kemp’s cooking was plain but substantial. Everything was well cooked, but nothing was added to enhance the natural taste or the enjoyment. The whole aim of the meal seemed to be to ingest nourishment in a business-like fashion, and talking was not deemed necessary or appropriate. I spent a solitary but contented evening in my sitting room before retiring early to bed after my busy and exciting day. As I knelt by my new bed, my heart filled with gratitude to the Lord for the comforts and kindness that surrounded me. I had feared that the many impressions of the day would whirl around in my mind, driving away sleep, but as I snuggled under the soft, clean bedding, I soon found myself drifting and then falling deeply into a welcome sleep.
CHAPTER 14
THE HOME FARM COCKEREL WOKE
me the next morning, but as I sat up in bed, I felt far from a confident housekeeper. I realised I knew nothing about the household routine, not even the normal working hours. I chided myself for neglecting to find out such vital matters from the Kemps the previous evening. As I sat in bed deliberating as to whether I should dress before going to the kitchen for warm washing water or go in my nightie, my quandary was answered when I heard heavy footsteps slowly coming toward my door, followed by a thud on the floorboards. I peeped out into the passage and saw a jug of hot water and a cup of tea by my door and the figure of Mr. Kemp ponderously heading for the stairs. At half past six every day, as regular as clockwork, this would be my gentle wake-up call.
